Public Transit

“Get some sun, you’re in Miami!” shouted the drunk girl partying near us on the beach. I looked down at my blaring farmer’s tan and quickly understood the exclamation was directed at me.

But that wouldn’t be the worst of what was to come… I would soon be lost on a bus, lost on a train, food poisoned, bitten by weird insects, sunburned, ripped off by several restaurants, and thrown off my sleep schedule. Yes, as you might have guessed I was on vacation.

Vacations for my wife and me always turn out to be much more stressful, painful, and hectic than our day-to-day life. But as I keep telling her, we should be thankful our vacations are the way they are—they make our regular life seem so relaxing.

Though it’s my fault, not hers, that our vacations are so rough--I like to get out and explore when I’m in new country. I want the REAL experience. I find the best way to do that is to be one with the locals. I want to shop where they shop, eat where they eat, and commit crime where they commit crime.

However, my wife’s idea of a vacation stems from an absurd idea that when you go on a vacation you are supposed to unwind, settle down, and forget the cares of the world.

I think my tactic for forgetting the cares of the world is better than hers, though: it’s impossible to think of the cares of the world when you’re on a bus to who knows where, getting off who knows when, sitting next to who knows who, who is speaking who knows what. That is why I always try to talk my wife into taking the bus to different sites when we’re in our vacation city.

Despite all our terrible bus-experiences from past trips (like the time on our honeymoon I got us stranded in some back-woods village in Mexico), this last time I swayed her into riding the bus by promising our destination would be a very nice beach in a state park.

However, I left out the minor details of the obstacles that stood in our way: we had to go through several questionable areas of downtown Miami, transfer from our bus to the Metromover, then transfer to another bus, which would take us within a couple miles of our final destination, which would be reached by walking through the outskirts of a rain forest.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if that was the way it went—but we got lost at our first transfer and it was all down hill from there. But I still found bright spots in the voyage. I got to listen to music on the first bus—I sat next to an aspiring rapper who wasn’t afraid to practice out loud. I was eager to give him some tips, but for some reason he didn’t fully comprehend my street cred. Now the kid will never make it big.

Me being the problem-solving explorer I am, I guided us through the mess and we reached the beach I promised. My wife really liked it; she looked very relaxed as she lay on the sand. And I’m sure the journey made it seem even more relaxing.

Cover the tomatoes!

Some places have tornado warnings. When they go off, you get in the basement. Where I grew up, we had frost warnings. When they go off, you run outside and cover your tomatoes.

The minute my dad heard "frost warning" in the 10 'o clock news he'd drop everything and get into the backyard. From there he'd stumbling through the dark as he made his way to the tarps in the corner of the yard, which were usually employed as the walls of my and my brother's fort.

Last year was the first year I manned my own garden. It came in a small kit with three little pots and three types of seeds. "Simple to grow and harvest!" and "Enjoy herbs in your own home!" were statements found on the box. I suspected they were hoaxing me into growing pot. Never had a chance to find out.

The seedlings sprouted up rather quickly, filling me with dreams of a lush botanical garden in my very own home. The next day they shriveled up like morals in the US Senate.

Despite my failure, I still wanted to try again. Besides, with all the food recalls lately, I feel a lot safer getting my vegetables from my very own garden. Other than the random times the neighbor's cat mistakes our planting pot for it's litter box, my vegetables get nothing but dirt and water.

The stores will tell you otherwise, hoping you'll keep buying their vegetables. "Rinse your produce with water when you get home," they say, "and they'll be perfectly safe to eat."

My wife tells me I need to use antibacterial soap and complete the ABC's song while I wash my hands, at least if I want them clean enough to eat with. If that's correct, I have a hard time believing that running tap water over a bundle of spinach will rid it of salmonella.

So this year I decided to give gardening another chance. I started by going to the store for gardening supplies. Looking at the tomato plants in the Walmart nursery was like looking at puppies in the pound: they all looked terrible, but I felt it was my moral duty to take one home.

I bought three. They looked scrawny and weak, but inside I knew they had heart. Like Mickey did for Rocky, I figured I'd give them the chance they needed to prove themselves. One month later, after regular watering, Miracle-Gro applications, and unconditional love, they still look like the plants I bought at Walmart.

Maybe the frost got 'em.

Door to Door Sales

What do you do when you can't get people to come buy a product? You go to them.

A few days ago I was home alone and the doorbell rang. I opened it quickly, thinking it might just be the one person I've waited to show up at my door for the last 15 years: the dang kid that stole my Charlotte Hornets windbreaker at Jr. Jazz basketball camp.

I opened our door to find a man holding a large duffel bag. He was overly kind as he started asking me about the condition of our carpet, our bathroom, and the amount of money we're "wasting away" on various cleaning products. I quickly concluded my windbreaker wasn't in his bag.

He pulled out a jug of green liquid and started polishing the brass on on our porch light. "What do you usually use to take the rust spots off this thing, anyway?" he asked. "Oh, just a little spit shine and elbow grease," I replied. Actually, I didn't even know we had a porch light until he pointed it out.

When I was a kid, a man like him showed up at our door. He asked if we had any stains in our house that we couldn't get rid of. I pointed out one on my shirt. He shook his head and asked if we had any spots on our carpet or couch. My eyes lit up as I thought of the stain in my parent's closet where the cat had puked.

I escorted him through our home to my parent's walk-in closet. He crawled under my mom's church dresses and went right to work on the stain. He used every bottle in his bag but couldn't beat the barf with any of them. Eventually he pulled out what I assume was Clorox and bleached the thing.

After he finished he asked if we'd want to buy some of his cleaner. As any good child would do, I told him I was home alone and wasn't sure where my parents kept their money. I then told him I would like to buy some, but couldn't because I was saving up for the new Weird Al album.

Years later, still stupid, I again let the cleaning-solution salesman in the house, even though he didn't really do much for the rust spots on the porch light. He wanted to show me how his cleaner would shine up the bathtub, but when we got to the tub it was apparent my wife had already beaten him to it.

"You're going to have a hard time finding any imperfections in this house, my wife runs a tight ship," I said.

He then proceeded to tell me how his product would make her life so much easier. At that point I just wanted to get him out of our house, so I asked how much the freaking bottle cost. "It comes to $41.89," he said, "and that includes sales tax."

Little did he know he was standing in the home of one of the cheapest persons on earth. I squinted one eye, tilted my head to back, and placed my hand on my chin. "I'll give you six bucks."

"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed. "This stuff is concentrated, man... it will last you for at least a year!"

We both maintained our negotiating stances for a few moments until I broke the silence. "So would a $6 jug of Clorox."